


A Stupid Question

by thisbirdhadwine



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, fuck gay panic this is gay euphoria, hey look the gay people get to be happy for a second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadwine/pseuds/thisbirdhadwine
Summary: "He was caught breathless when John asked, 'So, what do you think it feels like?'Paul coughed and fixed his eye on a hole in the floorboard. “What does what feel like?”John scoffed, 'To kiss a bloke. What do you think it’s like?'"It's a simple question, really, but with some complicated complications. Paul gets ready to defend himself; but, suddenly, he doesn't have to.It's a story of two friends discovering something wonderful about each other.(P.S. Peak moment, voted in by a friend: "Don't tell me. . . show me.")





	1. Chapter 1

It was a stupid fucking question and they both knew it.

 

In John’s room, choked with smoke and barely large enough to throw a glance at one another, the air felt terribly still. The record still spun and Little Richard continued his shouting from the other side of the room. Still, deathly quiet. Maybe it was just the space between them where their breath collided.

 

John popped the balloon like the devious child he was. He giggled, but looked uneasily away. His hand shifted restlessly to the back of his head and he smoothed the wayward hairs at the nape of his neck. He did it whenever he was uncomfortable, Paul noticed.

 

“Wow,” John said, “got somethin’ you need to get of your chest there, Paulie?”

 

Paul blushed furiously, heart-beat failing to find its rhythm. “No! Of course not, I was just wonderin’ . . .” He trailed off and now it was his turn to run his fidgeting fingers through his hair. Clearing his throat, he flashed John a strained grin. “I thought by this point you’d know me better than myself, you wouldn’t really think-”

 

John held up his hands in defense. He opened his mouth to say something, the quickly shut it and smiled. It was a coy expression, with only one corner of the mouth turned and the eyebrows pulled to express his sympathy. Paul was ashamed to think of the way his palms were sweating as John locked eyes with him.

 

“I was only jokin,” John cooed, “I wouldn’t say a thing like it against you.” With the mood somewhat dulled, John picked his guitar back up. Paul sighed and let his shoulders drop as he watched John return to the rhythm of picking out the song they’d been blocking out. Again, he retrieved his notebook from the pile of papers and pillows and jotted down the last of his interrupted thoughts. John, meanwhile, strung together the chords they’d scribbled down and was playing with additions to the progression one at a time.

 

Paul eyed him seriously. Clunky, ill-fitting tones elicited a tight, drawn expression from John. His eyebrows and mouth twisted like he’d popped a lemon wedge in his mouth. Slowly, he’d move his fingers up and down across the fret boards until he was in the range he needed; then, from there, he’d shift his fingers until they fitted into the chord. Paul couldn’t help but smile. John had never looked at a sheet of music in his life, but he understood a scale and an octave in an way that school couldn’t teach. It didn’t live in his big brain, but in the tips of his fingers and the crook of his elbow as he read the guitar neck like a book of braille. Paul beamed as he noticed John move to the A minor, a chord picked up from a recent lesson with Paul  himself. Warmth spread through his face and his chest constricted in a manner not altogether unpleasant. It was like when he was 13 and he’d taught Mike to do his own tie and the lad had gotten it on the third try.

 

He was caught breathless when John asked, “So, what _do_ you think it feels like?”

 

Paul coughed and fixed his eye on a hole in the floorboard. “What does what feel like?”

 

John scoffed, “To kiss a bloke. What do you think it’s like?”

 

Paul swallowed the lump in his throat. “How do you mean?”

 

John leaned forward, propping his head in his hands. An absolutely intolerable expression had settled on his face, smug and full of mischief. “I mean snogging sirs, lockin’ lips with lads, fuckin’ mackin’ on men, what else would I -”

 

“Would you just, _shuush_!” Paul threw his hands up and waved them around John’s head, as if he was trying to swat the thought away with the back of his hand. “Shut up!” he hissed, and John caught Paul’s hands with his own.

 

“What,” he giggled, “you’re not embarrassed, are you?” Laughing, he closed his hands around Paul’s. Paul struggled, trying desperately to wrench his arms from John’s grip. John retaliated by balling his fists around Paul’s and batting at him. Paul tried crying out threats in protest, but only managed to laugh at himself.

 

“Would you fuck off?” he chuckled, freeing his left hand and batting John on the side of his head.

 

“What for,” John laughed, pawing back, “you asked the question first!”

 

Paul put his hands down. Breathing harder than usual, he sighed and resigned to smoothing out his quaff with his free hand. “I shouldn’t ‘ave,” he sighed, “I shouldn’t.”

 

John furrowed his brow and frowned. “Why not?” he asked genuinely.

 

The entire exchange was a shock, Paul thought. This was not the lad known as John, the young vagrant galavanting through Liverpool with empty pockets and a mouth overflowing with words. It was not the friend he’d been seen shooting the shit with on any given street corner at an unreasonable time of day. It was not the tight-lipped, squinty-eyed, quick-witted brat he’d once quit school with every other day, sacrificed his grades and good standing with his father for. Feeling more vulnerable than ever, he wondered where _that_ guy was when he needed him.

 

“Well, why not?” John persisted.

 

“Because,” Paul stammered, “because it’s not - I’m not . . .”

 

It was a stupid fucking question, Paul thought. More stupid than that, he’d shared with the class. He had entered that mindless state of songwriting when the words flow without reserve. Life itself seemed to live on the tip of his tongue in those moments. Those thoughts in those sessions he caught in the palm of his hand and pasted them on the page as lyrics, as moods, as possible thoughts for new songs. It was one of many moments in which he poured his collective understanding of the world into a page or a note just to get the feeling right. There was always a song in his head, popping up in the moments and conversations of the day like pretty, fast-growing weeds.

 

They’d been talking about the anatomy of a kiss - what makes one want it, what makes it special. Snogging was always in songs, thought usually covert. It was always about the lips, the touch, and the blushing aftermath. Why did no one talk about the feel, the roaming hands, the strange mouth taste that sticks to you after you’ve long since gone home and you’re not entirely eager to get rid of? Paul had mused about these things and wondered aloud if there was a different word play between songs about kissing boys and songs about kissing girls. Would listening to the Ronettes cure his curiosity? Finally he blurted the fatal question and doomed himself. Now he wondered if his big, stupid question would raise even bigger questions for John.

 

John was still looking intently at him. With a stab of fear, Paul wondered if he was angry, but quickly remembered the lad was nearsighted; John’s eyes scanned him closely with a tight, squinting gaze. Paul was waiting for it - the punchline. Like when they’d giggled senselessly at that bloke in the orange blouse in front of the Cavern. Or when he’d wondered aloud how the teller at the corner store with the feminine walk “swung.” His collar itched and he pulled his shirt away from his neck. Already, he formulated the comebacks to whatever name John was about to call him.

 

John simply shrugged. “I dunno. Feels the same as kissin’ a girl, I assume.” He continued his soft strumming. He nodded as he hit a chord that agreed with him. Startled, he looked forward, noticing Paul hadn’t moved. “Write this down,” he said with a curt nod.

 

Paul stared blankly. “. . . really?”

 

“Yeah, E minor. Or do you have a better suggestion?” John asked smuggly.

 

“No, git, I mean about . . .”

 

John raised his head and looked at Paul under half-lidded eyes. He grinned knowingly. “Ah, that one. I’d believe it - It’s just a kiss. Anyone can do it, unless you’re a lipless freak.”

 

Paul laughed incredulously. “Yer fuckin’ weird, mate.”

 

John raised his eyebrows and chucked a ball of paper at Paul’s head. “Birds of a feather, luv. Now would you fuckin’ write the thing down?”

 

Giggling still, Paul shook his head as he made the note.

 

. . .

 

He knows, doesn’t he?

 

Paul thought this as he walked away from the house. He waved off his father’s shouts to put on a bloody jacket and Mike’s protest to come with him and strolled off. The bus stop lay just to his left a few blocks down and he was running right on time. He wanted the extra time to stew. Sitting at the bus stop would hopefully offer some clarity to the obsessive idea he’d been having over the past few days.

 

He knows what it’s like to kiss a bloke, doesn’t he?

 

Paul rested heavily against the sign with his shoulders drawn up. He’d been perfecting his cold stare and threw it at a random kid passing on the street, painfully aware it would not make him tougher or scarier. Instead, he pulled a cigarette out of the pack with his mouth and fished around his pocket for his lighter. He drew in as the flame caught. In vain, tried to let the thought out on the exhale.

 

His question from a few nights ago had only given John two possible reactions; a strange look coupled with a hurtful slur and intense questioning or a passive “who fucking cares, let’s get back to the song.” That’s what Paul would have expected from anyone else, the former from his half-forgotten schoolyard chums and the latter from George, more than likely. These things were known to reserved young men of barely 18, one of the unspoken rules of concluding boyhood. You kept your tears to your room, you offered your fists in a fight for your boys, and you did _not_ discuss the same sex in terms that weren’t familiar, familial, or funny. You risked being the butt of a cruel schoolyard taunt for expressing yourself that way. Paul was not looking for that attention - not when he was so “gifted” with his round face, his sad hazel eyes, his prettiness. Everyone always talked about how fucking pretty he was. All the bouncers at the Cavern wondered if he plucked his fucking eyebrows, as if he tried looking more like a bird. He was sick of thinking how they looked at him as the pretty boy. He was undeniably, unshakably, strictly . . .

 

But he totally knows, Paul thought.

 

Why else would he be so gentle? John was the least straightforward, least thoughtful person he’d ever met. He was constantly weaving in and out of answers to queries, jumping from snide comment to abstract John-ism to literal, joking remark every other second. He was infuriatingly dense, but undeniably funny. He was incorrigible, unwavering, insipid, teasing . . . and yet, so, _so_ gentle with this one thing. He’d taken Paul seriously. He thought of the keen eye searching him, the hands that braced his own. Did John feel the sweat on his palms and know? What was the point in humoring him?

 

He hadn’t remembered getting on the bus, but there he was, rolling his busted lighter in his palm and staring out the window. His knee bobbed endlessly at his side. Thoughtless, he bit the inside of his cheek. Mathew Street loomed ahead.

 

Maybe this was just the stage of friendship in which everything became mellowed. The feeling of ease had always been pretty strong between him and John. They often shared a space much closer than he shared with other guys, save George, who was essentially his brother now. Four nights out of the week they spent with each other, writing songs or goofing off. In the three ( _dear fucking Christ, already?)_ years they’d know each other, they’d become a recognizable unit to their family and friends. Jim, as sceptical and disapproving of John as he was, knew there was something afoot if he did not come to collect Paul for some undetermined debauchery every Thursday through Sunday. Between pals as close as John and Paul, there must be room for comfort. All they ever did together was make music, the ultimate expression of themselves. It was natural for questions to be asked - what is life? What are we? What do you think? What makes a good love song? Things slipped through - tired, wandering thoughts at night and funny little questions about sex and love and the highly personal parts of living.

 

And there was the eye thing. The crazy, unblinking, fucking _intense_ eye contact they made when they wrote songs together. Silent, they’d work out the notes with mirrored guitars and watch closely at the other’s movements. It was a bird dance. One would start with a collection of moves, the other copying and adding a piece or a riff in between. Always they’d be looking at - and even into - each other. They’d speak softly, hushed, trying to save the secret of their new song from the rest of the world. “You think that’ll work?” they’d ask each other, heads so close they were almost connected at the forehead. It was not uncomfortable, Paul thought, but highly sensitive. His awareness of John’s facial tics, his nervous habits, his expressions of distaste and discovery and contentment, was higher. He assumed - he _hoped_ \- John felt the same. He must feel that closeness and that unspoken attunement to each other. He had proof John knew now. He’d answered the question. He could have been harsh, and wasn’t.

 

Paul jerked awake with surprise as the bus skirted to a halt at the corner. He fumbled with his fare and exited wobbly-legged from the bus. It was only a two minute walk to the Cavern. Anxious, he lit another cigarette and sucked on it greedily. He had to stop thinking. He was obsessed. It was killing him to know what John thought. He rounded the corner and was relieved to see George smoking outside the Cavern awning. George caught his glance and gave him a fake little salute with a smile. As Paul walked closer, George’s face fell. “Bloody fuck, man, you look a right _state_. Are you alright?” he asked.

 

Paul sighed and shook his head. “I’m too in my own head right now, I’ll be fine.”

 

“With a head that big, I’d worried if you weren’t,” George quipped, laughing as Paul threw a few playful punches at him. “What is it, Jim on yer case about something?”

 

“Nah,” Paul shrugged.

 

“Is it a girl?” George murmured as he started descending the stairs.

 

Paul scoffed. “Sort of,” he mumbled.

 

George shook his head with a grin. “An’ thus begins the fall a’ Casanova,” he commented to appreciative laughter. Paul was wiping a stray tear from his eye when the gloom of the Cavern opened up before them. The bar was empty save for Rich, Rory’s drummer, chatting about something with the bartender. Maureen and Jenny were setting up chairs in front of the stage. With Pete trailing behind, John was dragging amps out on the stage. He looked over immediately at Paul and flashed him a brilliant smile.

 

Oh, he _knows_ , Paul sighed.

 

. . .

 

Paul became intimately aware of how deep in the shit he had become as they returned from the night.

 

He and John came into Mimi’s house like a hurricane, ripping up the stairs in a poorly hushed fervor. Paul kept silent until they made it up the landing - Mimi wasn’t his biggest fan to begin with and coming into her house like a bull in a china shop dressed like a teddy was a good way of ending up ass-first on the sidewalk. He tried fruitlessly to keep John at bay with soft hushing and a hand on his shoulder.

 

“John, I think we should-” he started.

 

“-an’ I can’t _believe_ the cheek a’ Wooler, stompin’ around like a fuckin’ rhinocerous durin’ our set, chattin’ up every passin’ trainwreck of a gell-”

 

“Would you be qui-”

 

“-he thinks he can get a’ foot in the door with Liverpool’s finest jus’ cuz he’s got that new jacket and knicks drinks from the bar, what a load of-”

 

“Right, but-”

 

“Oh, an’ did you see that horse he was talkin’ to? He’d have better luck off’rin’ a fuckin’ carrot than a drink, did ya catch a glimpse a’ those _teeth_ -”

 

“ _Hush,_ luv, are you tryin’a alert the goddamn block we’re home?”

 

John paused. “Huh?” He looked around as if he suddenly realized where he was. It was warm and still in his room, the window closed against the sudden turn of weather outside. The static of rain on the window added a calm to the room so separate from the raucous energy of the Cavern. John was still gripping his guitar case, swinging it aimlessly. His hair was slicked back with sweat and his face still red from talking his head off. He looked over at Paul with bright, wide eyes and smiled as a form of apology. Paul could not help but feel at home in that look.

 

“Right,” John sighed. He was still catching his breath from the walk over. “Sorry about the state of things,” he said, kicking clothes and papers under his bed. Surveying the damage, he stood leaning on one hip with his hands raking through his hair. Paul could see the exhaustion starting to set in. The half-lidded gaze around the room, the note he hummed as he exhaled on a sigh, and the constant fussing with his hair. Watching him move around made Paul feel oddly warm and drawn to him. He wanted nothing more than to wrap him up and put him to bed. He was no longer quick to deny how fucking good John looked even now.

 

Totally, undeniably, unshakably, strictly . . .

 

They spent a minute simply looking at each other. John twisted his mouth and nodded at Paul. Paul simply looked forward with a tired smile. When still nothing had been said, John put on one of his stupid faces and Paul laughed in surprise and rolled his eyes. His face felt uncomfortably hot and he rubbed his brow with the back of his arm.

 

“So.  Whaddya think?” John began. He held up his hand as his eyes darted to the floor. “Hold on, let me get my -” he spun in place, arms held up as if he was wading through hip deep water. “Where the fuck is my- the paper with all the-”

 

“What, you mean the show?” Paul asked. “I thought we did great. Crowd seemed fine. It was good adding Long Tall Sally I think.”

 

“Yeah, you were brilliant there,” John assured (Paul coughed to try and distract from the blushing) and continued to look frantically. “I’m thinking of switching up the Berry numbers - I need more practice with that riff. Should we be leadin’ with Talkin’ ‘Bout You? Where the _fuck_ is my -”

 

“Hey,” Paul cooed. He reached out and put his hands firmly on John’s shoulders. “I say this with much love: _shut up_.”  

 

John’s eyes snapped up. Initially confused, his brow was cinched. He caught Paul’s eye and relaxed under his touch. John laughed softly, “You always know how to get me outta whatever cloud I’m in.”

 

“You mad?” Paul asked.

 

“Nah, baby,” John sang, “I’m glad for it.”

 

Paul stopped thinking after _baby_. He had to know.

 

“I have a question,” he stated hesitantly.

 

“Uh oh,” John smirked, “what did I do?”

 

“Nuthin’,” Paul giggled. He was looking resolutely at the record player on John’s desk. “It’s about somethin’ from the other night.”

 

John didn’t interrupt as Paul had expected him to. He finally looked at him again and found John making determined eye contact at him. He almost seemed excited. “Yes?” he said.

 

Paul took a breath in. “We, we were talkin’ about, um, a song. . . and I asked if, um . . .”

 

John leaned closer and raised his eyebrows. His insipid smile aggravated and amused Paul. “You asked if?” he encouraged.

 

Paul suddenly couldn’t say it. “You know,” he cocked his head to the side and rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh _that_ ,” John said. He looked aloofly off to the side, failing to stop a smile.

 

“Stop it,” Paul laughed, “you’re being daft on purpose!”

 

“Daft?” John questioned, starting to laugh himself. “Me? Being daft? _On purpose?_   Why, the cheek -”

 

Paul bent double and giggled senselessly. John joined and for a second there was a great noise in the little room. Both of them reeled from their own laughter, simultaneously still reeling from the last several hours galavanting on stage. They clutched each other for support as it passed. The sight of John bright-red with laughter made his breath hitch in his chest. _There goes the eye contact thing again_ , Paul mused. He felt suddenly conscious of the admiring smile that seemed permanently plastered on his face.

 

“C’mon,” John insisted, “what d’you wanna know?”

 

Surprisingly, Paul had completely forgot. Busily he thought about so many other things that came before this moment. Being on stage and having hours of energy and joy at his mercy; running away from school and Jim and football club to head down the lane and let the music out of his head; the simple moments of hanging out there, doing exactly this every other weekend and never being bored. He felt a deep sense of belonging in the circle they shared. His better instincts begged him to pull away. _No_ , he thought. _I don’t really want to. I’m quite fine here._

 

“I,” he stuttered, “I only ask this ‘cuz I know you won’t say a thing, dig?”

 

“Mhm,” John hummed, his expression serious. “Cross my heart an’ shit.”

 

“Okay,” Paul breathed shakily, “but when I asked you that question . . . why did you answer?”

 

John blinked. “You think I keep track of my motives at all times?” John grinned and added a wide-eyed stare to make himself look wacky. “Honey bear, we wouldn’t be this far if I thought about what I was saying ever.”

 

Paul placed one of his hands over John’s face. “Look like a normal person for a second and find your motivation, please.” He almost lost himself to giggling again when John pretended to bite his hand. They took in a breath together.

 

“Okay,” John sighed. “I jus’ didn’t want you to feel weird about asking. You seemed uncomfortable after you asked, and I didn’t . . .” He bit his lip as his eyes wandered. “I didn’t want you to get scared all of a’ sudden.” He shrugged as way of putting a cap on his thought.

 

“You mean,” Paul wondered, “you didn’t think it was-”

 

“What?” John asked. It came to him before Paul could croak out an answer. “Listen, I don’t think asking one question about kissin’ a guy is necessarily gay, it’s just. . .”

 

Paul gulped. He shuffled in place and hunched his shoulders forward.

 

John’s face fell and he shook his head worriedly. “Well, I mean, it _could_ have been, that’s fine, that would be cool as _shit_ , ya know, like Little Richard is- ” his words flooded out his mouth. Then he sighed, shaking his head and putting his hand in front of his mouth, “I should, maybe - yeah, I’m shutting up now.”

 

Paul smiled both out of relief and in order to pacify. “I know what you mean. I was just afraid, ya know?” From there, there was no holding back his thoughts. “I had, ya know, been thinkin’ bout it, jus’ random like, and I could never ask out loud to anyone else and when it slipped, I didn’t know what you’d think and I didn’t want to make things weird between us, what with me stayin’ the night, and it was a stupid fucking question, so-”

 

“Hey, _hey_ ,” John rolled his eyes, “breath, damn you!” He shook Paul by the shoulders gently. For a moment, John stared carefully at Paul. Paul felt his eyes on his own, then on his mouth, and then back on his eyes. Slowly, he shuffled a little closer. He seemed to be fitting his mouth around a response, twisting it up in a not unpleasant grimace. The words were like a marble that he was twirling around with his tongue. Paul began to sweat. What on earth was he thinking?

 

John shuffled forward a step. His hands cupped Paul’s shoulders gently. “You know we’re always fine, right?” He eyed Paul carefully, squinting as if to read between the worry lines around his eyes. “You put up with my shit always, the least I can do is refuse to bat an eye when you have somethin’ on your mind.” He smiled playfully.

 

Paul took a deep breath in and slumped with relief on the exhale. He clapped John on the back before turning and flopping gracelessly onto his bed. He let a smile creep across his face as he lay face-down on the blankets. The bed creaked and John’s soft, muffled laughter drew him to prop his head in his hands. Running his fingers through his own hair, Paul whispered, “thank you.”

 

“For what?” John inquired.

 

Paul smiled faintly, his eyes still closed. “For not freakin’ out,” he mumbled.

 

John shook his head. “You keep actin’ like you asked me what it feels like to murder someone,” he giggled. “ _Everyone_ has the same thought as you at one point or another.”

 

“Everyone?” Paul asked.

 

“Everyone,” John replied.

 

_Everyone?_ Paul wondered.

 

He opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, he tried to play with his expression, erasing all skepticism or traces of judgement in his body. They were both lying diagonally across John’s bed, close enough to speak at a comfortable and near-silent whisper. “Do you know then, what it’s like?” Paul blurted out.

 

He heard the sheets rustle as John rearranged himself. John’s lips drew tight and he averted his gaze, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling of his dingy room. The dreaded creeping of doubt filled his stomach. For a moment, things were unbearably silent. John blinked slowly and turned his eyes back to Paul. There was a glimpse of something rare in his eyes; fear. John looked him in the eye and nodded.

 

Paul couldn’t understand what he was feeling at first. It was not surprise or shock or upset. It rose up out of his chest and flooded behind his eyes and was wonderful. His heart beat quicker and he could not contain his smile. He felt like he could have _cried_ , even! Looking into John’s eyes and seeing the soft, knowing way he nodded his head, Paul felt incredibly relieved.

 

“You’re serious,” he asked.

 

John nodded again, this time smiling. Finally breathing again, he began to say, “It’s kinda -”

 

“Don’t,” Paul sighed. He placed his hand on the space between John’s neck and shoulder. He softened his hold when he felt John shiver. “Show me,” he insisted.

 

“Hm?” John hummed nervously.

 

“Don’t tell me,” Paul repeated, “ _show me._ ”

 

John turned nearly scarlett. Otherwise, his expression failed to betray his nerves. He simply nodded again and leant forward into Paul. They hovered awkwardly for a moment in almost-connection before Paul closed the gap.

 

Realistically, it was not an earth-shattering kiss. It was like a goodbye kiss, extended. Paul did have to admit they fit together quite naturally, though. He marvelled at how soft John could be; his mouth seemed to form perfectly to Paul’s. There were really only a few differences. Stubble, for one, was less uncomfortable than he imagined. Instead of shelf-stable flowers, he smelt cigarettes and something warm and spiced around the collar of John’s shirt. Paul laughed softly into John’s mouth, thinking of how he smelled like a Liverpool parlor on any given Sunday. They stayed lip-locked for a few seconds and for how little they tried to move or breathe, Paul still felt his eyes flutter closed.

 

John pulled back as Paul opened his eyes. Both caught a glimpse of the other’s curious expression, partially nervousness and partially longing, and giggled quietly. John swept some fallen hairs back with his shaking hand and grinned. “Well, now you have the answer to your question. Are you satisfied?” he asked playfully.

 

Paul shook his head. “Not even close,” he whispered, pulling John into him, his fingernails digging into the nape of his neck.


	2. A Stupid Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Truth be told, he didn’t have a clue as to why he rejected and detested Stu. Everyone else found him charming and artistic, and with good reason. . . None of them adored him as much as John, though; to him, Stu was the smartest, most creative person in the room beside himself. They spoke a painters tongue, often cultivating in-jokes and isms that the other boys found unintelligible. John pestered and bullied his little friend for his thinness, his sensitivity, his grace, but would kick the shit out of anyone who agreed with his mocking remarks. Stu seemed to belong to John. John was oblivious to how stupid he looked as he followed Stu around."
> 
> John and Paul get a little bit closer and Paul finds out that it can be a double-edged sword falling in love with your best friend. Jealousy and tensions rise, but at the end of the day, they're still John and Paul. Sometimes, we know the answers before we ask the questions.

“How come teachers always say ‘there are no stupid questions’ but then, obviously, roll their fuckin’ eyes when you ask a question that they think is stupid?” Paul asked, fussing with his hair in front of a Cavern bathroom mirror. 

 

John hummed thoughtfully as he finished buttoning his shirt. “Maybe the question isn’t stupid, but the answer is,” he mumbled. 

 

Paul nodded and looked over at John’s reflection in the mirror beside him. “What about the answer is stupid, though?”

 

John smirked. “Cuz it was something you should’ve already known, git,” he responded. He ruffled Paul’s perfectly styled hair without taking his eyes off his own reflection and ducked Paul’s light jabs with a laugh. “Or maybe the teacher is too stupid to have an answer and doesn’t want you to know.”

 

Paul scoffed, again attending to his hair. “How am I ‘spose to remember every trivial bloody thing those ghouls say? It’s straight shite from dusk ‘til dawn.”

 

“Yer just full a’ stupid questions lately, aren’t ya?” John giggled. He turned around to help rangle the collar of Paul’s leather jacket and smooth it back into place. “You should go to art school,” he suggested, “stupid questions are a form a’ currency there. I keep askin’ the painting instructor how to shade a tit in different colors and he considers it an ‘artistic inquiry’ of the highest calibre.”

 

Paul shook his head. “My God. Art is dead. What would Picasso say?”

 

“He’d probably just say ‘paint it square and put an eye in it’ or somethin’,” John said. 

 

They both threw their heads back and laughed. Paul curled his arm around John’s shoulders to guide him backstage, squeezing his arm for a little longer than usual. George met them at the curtain. Absentmindedly, he fingered a couple of solos and shook his head at John and Paul. 

 

“You two lovebirds ready to get out there?” George inquired with a crooked smile. 

 

John shrugged off Paul’s arm with a sigh and Paul attempted to mask his disappointment. “Ready as we’ll ever be, Georgie boy.” He shouldered his guitar as Stu rounded the corner. Paul felt strangely like a cat with a bristled back. John looked over at him slyly. “Hey, sailor,” he crooned (incurring a sharp breath from Paul), “have ya been practicing that bit a’ ‘Shout!’ on yer bass there?”

 

Stu rolled his eyes. “Don’t patronize me - of course I haven’t.” The two of them chuckled, heads close together as they discussed a recent assignment for a class. 

 

Paul couldn’t help but twist his mouth into a bitter smile. He crossed his arms and turned to George to ask him about tuning for a song. Curiosity got the best of him and he peeked over George’s shoulder intermittently. 

 

“You two still ‘avin’ a row?” George said, eyeing him carefully.

 

“Not really, I’m just not a fan of little Jasper Johns over there at the moment,” Paul grumbled, “maybe it’s that little nasal sound in his voice.”

 

“At the moment?” George chided, “as far as I know, you’ve never been his fan  _ ever _ .” 

 

“Jesus, what a clever observation,” Paul spit, “you must have the insight and wisdom of a goddamned Buddhist monk.” 

 

George shrugged. “ I do my best,” he said with a big, toothy grin. “Just don’t have a punch-out on stage again.”

 

“Oh, it was  _ one time _ !” Paul griped. 

 

George barely had a moment to look at Paul plainly when the club manager rounded the corner and shouted about getting ready to go on in a minute. Paul caught Stu leaning in to John, asking loudly, “Still coming ‘round to Ivan’s tonight? Should be a good time.” 

 

John’s eyes darted around for a second until they found Paul. “Nah,” he said warmly, “I’ve got plans.” 

 

Paul turned so that neither of them could see him beaming. 

 

. . . 

 

“Can I ask another question?”

 

“Will you ever run out of them?”

 

“Maybe - you don’t know, this might be the last one.” 

 

John chuckled. “Last one ever?”

 

They sat indian-style across from each other, knees touching, leaning in to speak in hushed laughter. John’s messy little music journal was spread across their laps, though only a few notes had been taken. The record player, at the lowest possible volume, rang with Elvis’s golden voice. Paul pondered John’s question with a playful glance around the room, flipping a pencil through his fingers. “I mean, maybe,” he said cooly, “you never know what can pop up in me mind, ya know?”

 

John grinned. “I might,” he hummed.

 

“Oh?” Paul teased. 

 

“Yeah,” John replied sweetly. “I even know what yer thinkin’ about right now.” John leant forward, hands on Paul’s knees, and kissed him. Paul was almost embarrassed by the audible, yearning sigh that escaped him. And his hands, unconsciously traveling up John’s arms and over his shoulders, revealed this new secret weakness. He hoped that John didn’t think he was stupid or naive. Yet, even with his experience, implied by age and half-told stories, John returned his happy little sighs. John kissed him slowly, sleepily, and he struggled to keep his question armed and ready for when they returned to the real world. 

 

More than anything, he was surprised that John was a gentle. . . something. Paul wasn’t sure what word he was supposed to call John at this stage. Paul had asked a bold, stupid question weeks before and set into motion a relationship that pushed them close, but not too close, to a couple. John was still cuffed to Cynthia, and Paul still courted the series of single-use girlfriends. But more days than not, they slipped away, under the guise of songwriting and rehearsal, to see each other. Most of the time, everything was the same; they sat close, writing and talking seriously, eyes locked on each other. Now, imbued with boldness and longing, Paul made moves every other time to kiss John, touch him a little longer, and ask further questions. 

 

And with only this, John became soft, softer than he was with anyone else it seemed. Cynthia didn’t share much, but the way she blushed at his glances when someone asked “so, what did you two do last night?” and the occasional rings of mouth-shaped bruises around her neck told enough of a story. With Paul, though, it seemed John was more apt to let go of the “dominant man” ruse. It was surprising, and not entirely disappointing, like seeing Marlon Brando cry at a chick flick or watching Elvis hold a baby. It felt unexpected when it happened, but the more it happened the more he realized it was natural. His hard jaw and near-sighted squint softened into a bright smile and his calloused hands felt feather-light as they grasped at his shoulders, neck, and shirt collar. Sometimes, his grip would be tighter and his breath quicker, but it was more of an invitation for Paul to be rougher than an actual display of roughness. Paul hated to admit he was overjoyed at this dynamic; he didn’t like being in a compromised position with anyone, not even this intimidating teddy. Quickly, however, he realized there was very little about John that intimidated him. He could be quick to insult, take a joke too far, and throw a precise punch in a back alley tussle, but in these private moments, when the world wasn’t watching, he was sincere and relaxed and so fucking  _ soft _ . 

 

“Paul?” John mumbled, lips still close enough to brush against his own.

 

“Hm?” Paul groaned. He emerged back into reality as if waking from a deep sleep. 

 

“You were asking something?” Heedless, John pressed his face into the side of Paul’s neck and kissed him sweetly under his jaw. 

 

Of course, he couldn’t remember the fucking question anymore and could only tilt his head to the side and run a hand through John’s hair, melting under his touch. He let the moment sit for a couple of seconds before coming back to the thought. “Yeah,” he finally asked, “why didn’t you go to that party?”

 

John chuckled. “Why would I go anywhere when I’ve got you in my bed?” 

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lennon,” Paul giggled and pushed away John’s face. “Why not? Really?”

 

John sighed and smiled. Paul couldn’t help but feel his heart reach out to him, what with his tired eyes and one-dimpled grin. “I dunno. I didn’t feel like it,” he murmured. “I’m knackered and it’s the same squares as usual; Stu’s art school chums. ‘Course they’re fun, if you like whiskey and bad attitudes. They do like good music, at least, and it’s where I meet the Oscar Wilde types like meself.”

 

“You what?” Paul pondered.

 

“The other queers - ‘course, some are bisexual or somethin’ a’ that nature, that’s more my brand anyhow,” John answered. 

“Oh!” Paul perked up. Like a bell going off, he felt something ringing through him that felt clear and present. 

 

John was clearly watching the realization set in. Paul tried vainly to manage his face, but could not reduce the blush in his cheeks. Adoringly, John tilted his head and looked into Paul’s eyes. “Yeah,” he chuckled, “we’re not the only two in Liverpool, luv.” 

 

“I knew that,” Paul stuttered, “I just didn’t realize they were advertisin’. How do you go about talkin’ to people about being. . . as such.” He gulped down the word he wanted to say. 

 

“Like findin’ birds in a bar,” John yawned, “start chattin’ up one, all her friends jump outta the cupboards.” He giggled and leant his head against the wall. “Really, I jus’ made a friend at college and he had a friend, then that one had a friend, and so on and so forth.” John eyed him lovingly. “They’re prolly doin’ the same thing next week, if you’d like to come ‘round with me after rehearsal.” 

 

Paul nodded, smiling to himself. “I’m into it,” he hummed. He looked back at John and grinned. “Did you know when you found your friend? Was it, like, ESP or some shit?”

 

“Nah,” John sang, “I jus’ met him and I dug ‘im. We went out, got right pissed a couple a’ times and jus’. . .”  

 

“Jus’ what?” Paul stammered. He didn’t like the sunken feeling in his chest. The warmth in his face seeped into the bed sheets, leaving a stinging cold dread with a little fire of envy. 

 

John shrugged. He started playing with his sideburns, eyes fixed resolutely on his lap. “We talked about it at first. We, um. . . were very friendly for a while, and uh. . .” His eyes darted up to the ceiling and he bit his lip. Blush crept into his cheeks. Paul simply nodded. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he soothed. He hesitated as he brought his hand up to John’s face. He gently traced the curve of John’s jaw, pulling his eyes back and drawing a smile out of him. Peace settled between them after a while. Emboldened, Paul asked, “so, you’ve, uh, gotten around then?”

 

John laughed and Paul was relieved to have broken his spell of minor panic. “Oh, of course, gotten around the bend that is. I’ve always been ‘round the bend - I was born fuckin’ curvy.” The two of them giggled for a second before Paul shot John a look. The glance spoke for itself and John sighed, nodding. “Yeah,” he said softly, “yeah, I have.”

 

Paul grinned and nodded to himself. “Okay,” he whispered. Silence followed. Stagnation was beginning to set in when John shot Paul an inquisitive look.

 

“You’re thinkin’ way too loud for my liking,” John laughed, “and I think the temperature a’ the room’s gone up about ten degrees.” Tilting his head, he leaned in to eye Paul down. Paul bit his lip and sat on his hands. Like magnets, they seemed to push each other back and forth; whenever John leaned in, Paul leaned back. A few passes of bobbing and weaving led to a fit of laughter. For Paul, the weight of his questions and thoughts left with every gasping, laughing sounds. Yet, he couldn’t shake the hitch in his breath when he caught John’s eyes or the unbearable heat on his cheeks. Finally, he sat up. 

 

“Erm,” he stuttered, “do you think you could. . . y’know. . . show me how you-”

Sleepily, John smiled. “Yeah,” he sang, “I would love to.” 

 

Paul stopped breathing. 

 

“Just not right now,” John yawned, “I can’t keep me eyes open.”

 

Paul exhaled. John beamed as he wrapped an arm around Paul and pulled him in, falling gracelessly back into bed. Wrapped in strong arms, his street clothes, and his smile, Paul felt like he was emerging from something. Or at least emerging into something else. 

 

. . . 

 

“Where the  _ fuck  _ is he, then?” he cried. Frustration coated the inside of his mouth like sour milk. Rehearsal had begun fifteen minutes ago and the crew had filed in; George first, in his dad’s old coat, then John and himself, like a two-headed monster in a soft leather jacket. Finally Pete, combing back his quaff as he walked in, announced the commencement of rehearsal. But, as Paul was painfully aware, rock ‘n’ roll leaves no room for unplugged amps and the best rockers know that, without a bass line, the echo of mediocre music is deafening. 

 

John scratched the back of his neck and huffed. Like a school boy presented with a destroyed piece of property or crude drawing and asked “who did this?”, he looked to the other boys to confirm his innocence. George raised a judging eyebrow and continued fiddling with his guitar. Pete shrugged, mouthing something at him with a playful grin. Paul bit back a spiteful cry of “care to share with the class?” Instead, he shut his eyes tight and groaned. 

 

“Alrigh’,” he whispered, the biting edge of his tone clear and fearsome in the microphone, “lemme have a go at it, then.” He twisted the tuning pegs on his Rosetti with a violent flick of his wrist and plummeted the top four strings down an octave. John’s glanced at him with a pained expression. He began to bite his fingernails. Paul, in no mood to even feel a bit of sympathy, looked coldly at John. “Any idea where Gustav fuckin’ Klimt has run off to now?” 

 

John scoffed. “Funny. I don’t remember bein’ his fuckin’ babysitter.” His hands flew to his sideburns, thumbs smoothing them out attentively. He stared at the floor. “He’s prolly on his way from a class or runnin’ late. Give ‘im a minute.” 

 

Paul’s jaw drew taught. He kept his eye on John until he pulled his shoulders up almost to his ears and looked him in the eye. Defiant, John held his hands up and shook his head once, a single, curt side-to-side motion. Paul flashed a tight-lipped sneer. 

 

“He has forty-five of my fuckin’ seconds,” Paul glowered, “then we start without him.”

 

No one was truly surprised by Paul’s precise bass-playing. What  _ was _ surprising was the cloud of darkness hovering over him. He seemed to barely move, barely tap his foot as they ran through sets, number after number. He sang like a dream and even managed to nail the hard-edged screams in the Little Richard covers, yet no one would say a word. Tension hung heavy and damp on the room. There was very little boyish banter and the Cavern walls for once didn’t echo with laughter. George seemed smaller than usual; at one point, Pete had snuck behind the curtain and Paul was too heated to notice. 

 

In the midst of it, he did feel guilty. Much like after having a row with Mike when they were little and hearing his muffled, sullen crying, his frown felt permanent and his throat pulled taut around something round and sad. Between songs, he tried to swallow his pride, but it was too immense to pass. Most of his pain came from looking over at John and finding him resolutely staring straight ahead. 

 

Truth be told, he didn’t have a  _ clue  _ as to why he rejected and detested Stu. Everyone else found him charming and artistic, and with good reason. Girls certainly liked him, at least enough to stare at him on stage and make him a canvas of lipstick stains and hickies. He could be brooding and dark, but not in a bummer way. His darkness came from sensitivity and he had a real knack for coming up with profound, very nice things to say. Paul wondered often how they could use Stu’s words in songs. He had a sense of mystery, but broke the mystique often by replying dutifully to schoolyard chants or pulling funny faces with the lot of them. The lads liked his art. George even had a drawing or three on his bedroom wall. None of them adored him as much as John, though; to him, Stu was the smartest, most creative person in the room beside himself. They spoke a painters tongue, often cultivating in-jokes and isms that the other boys found unintelligible. John pestered and bullied his little friend for his thinness, his sensitivity, his grace, but would kick the shit out of anyone who agreed with his mocking remarks. Stu seemed to  _ belong  _ to John. John was oblivious to how stupid he looked as he followed Stu around. 

 

Rehearsal ended and no one stuck around but John. Quickly, he approached, and for a moment Paul thought he’d have to duck a closed-fist jab. Instead, he found John with shoulders slacked and his face contoured in soft sadness. Paul felt his chest swell with returning warmth and simultaneous guilt. 

 

“Well, that could have gone better,” John exhaled shakily. He smiled desperately at Paul before his gaze turned to the floor. He kicked around the usual Cavern-floor grime for a while before mumbling, “I’m sorry. I should have gone after Stu.” 

 

Immediately, Paul’s body unclenched and he grimaced. “No,  _ I’m  _ sorry,” he sighed, “I’ve been a right ass-”

 

“If you’ve been a right, I’ve been the left,” John mumbled quickly. 

 

Paul paused, biting back a smile. “I mean,” he continued, “can’t argue with that.” He started twisting his pegs back into place and it gave him an excuse to look somewhere else for a minute. “I jus’ get heated about the band,” he soothed, “and. . . well, I can’t say I’m unbiased when it comes to Stu.” 

 

John sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I’d say.” He looked at Paul and the disappointment in his look was faint, but still unbearable in Paul’s eyes. “What is it with you two anyway?” John asked. 

 

Paul shrugged. “Differences in personality? Different ‘artistic vision,’ or some shit like that?”

 

John smirked. “I guess yer more of an impressionist and he’s. . .?”

 

Paul grinned and finally looked back at John. “He’s definitely more a ‘do is square, put an eye in it’ kinda man, right?”

 

John giggled. “Right.” The two stood a minute and Paul felt the air loosen up and grow warmer. John stepped lightly next to him and held his hands behind his back. A quick look confirmed the room was empty. John crept in close to Paul’s side, his lips almost brushing Paul’s ear. “Let’s bail out tonight,” John whispered, “I know a place down the road we could bum around for a while.” His palm hovered gently around Paul’s lower back and the implication of his fingers tracing the folds in his shirt made him shiver. 

 

“Yeah, but we promised to go an’ Ivan will be pissed,” Paul replied, “it’s his birthday, y’know.” Paul looked John up and down. “And anyway,” he cooed, “we don’t get out much as of late.” 

 

“My place is ‘out’,” John retorted playfully, “as in outside. One of my teachers is away on business. He must make a quick buck - he’s got a clean lil’ spot by the quarry.” John looked around before resting his head on his shoulder, glancing up at Paul with distractingly pretty eyes. “He’s asked me to make sure no one messes with his boat, since his place is, I dunno, right on the water. Pretty nice view, pretty hidden away. . .” 

 

Paul groaned and pulled away with great effort. Even with his arms crossed and his back to John, he could feel John’s growing smirk and glittering eyes. He hated to say it, but could no longer sit in denial; part of the frustration seeping into the rehearsal was sexual. They’d had a lot of false-starts throughout the week. Paul blamed himself. He’d either been invited to Menlove Ave or dragged John back to his house every night that week, but when the moment of truth arrived at the end of a kiss or a half-lidded look, Paul backed away suddenly. He couldn’t shake his nerves. The irony! He had never been made nervous by a girl, not even when he lost his virginity, but a close encounter with his  _ best friend  _ had him quaking for half an hour! While he was embarrassed and frustrated, John seemed unshaken. He would always respond to Paul with an understanding, sympathetic look and back off. Then he’d smile, softly, reassuringly, before yapping on about a song he’d heard or a thing he’d seen in class. For once, Paul wished he wasn’t so cool. Then he realized, it wasn’t coolness; it was understanding. He must have felt the same way before, Paul thought.  _ He knows _ . 

 

Paul glanced at John through the corner of his eye. The bastard was beaming at him and raising his eyebrows suggestively. Paul shook his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Shuddup,” he muttered. 

 

“What!? I didn’t say a damn thing!” John laughed. 

 

“Yes you did! With yer fuckin’ eyes!” The two of them were rendered useless for a moment as they leaned against each other in a fit of laughter. Eventually, John started walking, his hand gently pressing the small of Paul’s back.  They left the Cavern for the dawn-lit streets of Liverpool, chatting as they strolled. Summer was starting to take effect in the city; people stayed out longer, wore less clothing, and seemed a little less stressed. The beatniks were starting to take over and John and Paul commented how their trademarked cuffed jeans and leather jackets seemed to be catching on outside of the rock ‘n’ roll circus. The way to Ivan’s party was cut short by ducking through alleys and running through other people’s lawns and soon they arrived at a little pub on a quaint street corner. 

 

“Here,” John sang, “let’s pitch tent here for a second.” He leaned, back to the wall, and fished a pack of cigs out of his pocket. He offered it to Paul without looking up. 

 

“Need a breather, old man?” Paul teased as he pulled out a cig. It was his turn now; he deftly pulled out his lighter and flicked it open in front of John. Almost as soon as it was in his mouth, Paul thumbed the lighter to life and lit his cigarette. John shot him a sideways glance and winked. 

 

“Nah,” he said, “just biding time - I have a talent for bein’ late, I’m not about to raise their expectations in there.”

 

Paul scoffed, “Right, fashionably late. At least you can get the  _ late _ part right.”

 

John smiled softly. They smoked. Paul noticed John looking at nothing, then suddenly stealing a glance down the road. Several times, he peeked his head around the little awning they were hiding under down to the street corner. Paul was confused; John wasn’t making moves to walk in anytime soon. 

 

When it dawned on him, he felt the feeling run from his face and settle hard in his chest. For a second, he could only stare off ahead. Then he let out a dark laugh, shaking his head as he did. 

 

John’s face twisted and he tried to smile. “Alright there, luv?” 

 

Paul continued to shake his head. He bit the inside of his cheek and sucked his teeth. Like a boxer, he reeled back, planned his next move carefully. “You’re waiting on someone, aren’t you?” he spat. 

 

John’s brow furrowed. “Huh?” 

 

Paul smiled grimly. “Well, it’s obvious,” he said bluntly. Another thought passed him and his eyes got wide, cueing a similar, surprised look from John. Playfully, and quite maniacally, Paul gasped. “You’re waiting for  _ him _ , aren’t you?” 

 

John gawked at him. “Are you bein’ fucking serious right now? Look at you - you sound like Cyn whenever I mention Bridget Bardot!” he yelled. 

 

“Don’t gimme that shit,” Paul cried, “it’s so fucking obvious he’s got you wrapped ‘round his finger. He doesn’t show up to fucking practice and what? You-you invite him out for a drink an’ a laugh? Can he do any wrong in your eyes? If I’d a known better, you were tryin’ to fuck  _ him  _ instead a-” 

 

John had taken in a sharp breath. Paul could not help staring (angrily or lustfully?) at the angle of his jaw as it clenched tight. And suddenly, it all made sense. All at once, his face felt drained of heat and color. Something felt caught in his throat and he could not swallow it down. Puzzle pieces formed in his head, each of them marked with the name of something he had missed before which now seemed very clear; the way they grabbed each other’s sleeves to lead one another through a hall, the tight focus on each other as they played solos or drew their newspaper cartoons, they boyish smile John flashed at him when no one was looking, the occasional rings of hickies on Stu’s neck - dear  _ God!,  _ Paul thought through a shaky, panting breath.  _ They really are _ \- 

 

“Paul,” John breathed. 

 

Paul breathed through clenched teeth. “Oh, fuck  _ off _ , John,” he spat. He swivelled around to walk away and slammed chest-first into another leather teddy. “‘Scuse me, I-” he mumbled, halted as he happened to look up. The sun was long set, but a pair of sunglasses looked blankly back at him. His vision went red. 

 

“Hey, Paul,” Stu stuttered, “look, I-I’m sorry about rehearsal today - I got caught up in an assignment, drinks are on me - hey, where ya goin’?” 

 

Paul was already stomping down the path after roughly knocking Stu out of the way. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and could only feel ice around his shoulder blades. In the heat of a setting sun, he felt so cold and shrugged off, an abandoned coat in a cold closet at a party. Vaguely, he knew John was calling after him, begging him to come inside, and when the tapping of footsteps followed, he just walked faster. He was running before he realized; there he went, pounding down the street like a child recently caught stealing from the candy store. 

 

He didn’t think as he ran. Eventually he ran out of breath and settled in a park somewhere he’d only been once before. He ripped the gate open with more force than intended and collapsed dramatically onto a bench. A woman with a baby starred as he huffed and bent in on himself, and he had half a mind to shoot her a murderous glance. But when his breath returned, his anger didn’t; he was mortified if anything else. He was such a dramatic, sentimental fool - why couldn’t he just chill out? Why couldn’t this just be about sex? He didn’t just want the attention, the touch of another person, but he wanted to be special in John’s eyes like no one else was. What kind of feeling was that? He tried to comfort himself by wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The hurt in his chest felt more like heartbreak than the pounding of his overworked lungs. He wondered if he meant anything to John at all, and again the images of them locking eyes, them writing songs, them sharing a thousand five-second moments of peace and belonging together. How could he doubt that? But, he did it anyway, and tried to look away from every passerby when his eyes felt hot and full of tears. 

 

The gate creaked open loudly, followed by another bout of troubled breathing. Paul’s eyes were closed and he prayed to God the tears were receding. Slow footsteps approached. A hitched breath followed, but it’s momentum died and whatever the breath wanted to convey dissolved. The sound played again in Paul’s head - did he detect a hint of anger? Frustration? Disappointment? Oh God, anything but  _ that _ . 

 

The bench creaked beside him. Hesitantly, Paul opened his eyes, but refused to look up. He balled his fists in his lap and bit his lip. The fellow beside him continued to breathe like an asthmatic dog. Paul was careful in swallowing the lump in his throat. “Look,” he mumbled, “I don’t need you to chew me out-” 

 

“Well, I can’t really,” Stu gasped, “because I can’t fuckin’  _ breathe. _ ”

 

Paul’s eyes shot up. His fists clenched tighter. Looking at Stu gasping on the bench beside him, he was gobsmacked. Some of the anger surged again, but he was so lost in his confusion that when he opened his mouth, nothing but an exasperated breath followed. 

 

Stu breathed from beneath a fringe stringy blonde hair. “Please,” he sighed, “don’t ever make me run again.” 

 

Paul shook his head stupidly. “What are you doin?”

 

“Tryin’ to clear the air of all this stupidity,” he groaned, “you realize it’s idiotic to be jealous, right?”

 

Paul bristled. “I mean, it isn’t, really,” he said, eyeing Stu defensively. “I know you two have a. . . history. . . which is okay, I just-”

 

“Okay,” Stu said quickly, eyes darting around the park, “just shut up for a second.”

 

Neither of them spoke. Paul began to itch with uncertainty. He wanted to snap at Stu’s face, something that would at least wake him up from his twisted, contemplative stare. After a lengthy thought, Stu looked up slowly at Paul. Empathetically, he smiled. “Look,” he sighed, “I’ve seen this coming for a while now. You two are quite stuck in your own little world. Everyone can see it,” he said, and Paul’s heart skipped a few beats. “But,” he finished, “not everyone can really  _ see _ , you dig? Not like us, we just. . .”

 

Paul thought about what John had said about his friends, the other Oscar Wildes. Their long, pained conversations, which he’d never heard, somehow echoed in his head. “You  _ know _ ,” Paul breathed. 

 

Stu nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He glanced at Paul again, this time with a genuine smile. “You know, you should probably go to the party. They’d love you - you’re a smart kid. The queer beatnik’s dream, really.” 

 

Paul’s brow furrowed.  “But, what about you?” He felt embarrassed - had he ever wondered how Stu felt? 

 

“I’m okay sittin’ this one out,” Stu nodded plainly, “I’ve got to make a call anyway.” A grin played at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been talkin’ with Astrid, actually.”

 

Paul perked up, both out of protection and intrigued. He instantly thought of her short blonde bob, her sweet disposition, and her unique style of being. When they met in Germany a year before, Paul was convinced everyone was going to fall in love with her. And he seemed to be right. 

 

Paul eyed Stu sadly. “He knows?” 

 

Stu nodded. “Yup,” he huffed, “he always knew it wasn’t really a long term engagement. We’re both a little too dark for each other’s tastes.” He looked at Paul curiously and for reasons unknown to himself, Paul blushed. “You two, though,” he wagged his finger at Paul, “that’s a different story. You two have lasting power. Mostly because I don’t think either of you can go five seconds without mentioning the other.” He raised an eyebrow at Paul. “So, what are you still doing here?”

 

Paul shook his head. “He has to be so pissed,” Paul said sullenly, “you think he’ll have me?”

 

Stu’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Are you stupid or something? I’m not even gonna humor you with an answer that you already know.” 

 

A moment passed. When he felt like he knew, Paul got up, gave Stu and awkward wave, and trotted down the path he’d just walked. 

 

. . . 

 

John was sitting with his head in his hands on the stoop in front of Ivan’s place. Balloons hung jauntily above him. His face was stony and Paul could tell from the small ring of cigarette butts around him that he’d been there for a while. When Paul approached, his face hardened even more. He dared look once, then went back to staring at the sidewalk. “What?” he spit, “care to accuse me of fucking the Queen mum, too?”

 

Gently, Paul sat beside him, nodding playful. “I mean, if you did, I could really only commend you on your perseverance. Going through the guards one at a time must have been hell.” 

 

John scoffed and angrily flicked another butt at the sidewalk. Without looking, he sighed, “still pissed at me?”

 

Paul shook his head. “How could I be,” he said, “you waited here for me.” 

 

John looked beside him. Paul had to look away to stop from smiling. The glowing neon signs of John’s attraction were a little too much to bear for the moment. “Should we say sorry?”

 

Paul sighed, “Nah. I’ll make it up to you later,” he looped his arm through John’s elbow. “Now, aren’t you going to show me off in there?”

 

John beamed. “If you’ll have me,” he cooed. 

 

Paul looked him in the eye with a crooked smile. “You know I will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeezus, it's been a while. It's the New Year, I moved me and all five of the things I own to Iceland for the semester, and somehow I'm still really good at starting TV shows when I'm supposed to be working. You guys have been so patient waiting for more, and I hope this will make you're little romantic hearts happy! And don't worry, /it/ is happening soon, I'm just a fan of slow build and feelings (I know, how ew).   
> Have a nice day, Beatle-people!


	3. Two Stupid People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Oh come on, you love it,' Paul cried, advancing on him. With his hands reaching up across his chest to his shoulders, Paul chuckled, 'it’s part of my charm. Always asking questions. Isn’t that what attracted you to me?'
> 
> John looked at him warmly, nodding. 'No,' he said puzzlingly, '‘twas your ass, darlin’.'
> 
> Paul laughed and pushed him. 'Shuddup,' he giggled. 
> 
> John stepped back into place, one foot between Paul’s, close enough to feel his shuddering breath. 'Make me,' he whispered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't lie, I have been madly excited to write this bit. It's a situation I've never written before and having to navigate it in a way that I felt happy with and that wasn't the standard format has been a fucking pleasure. I hope you enjoy the last chapter of my little parlay into fanfiction! 
> 
> I would rate this as mildly spicy, so if sexual themes or descriptions of sexual acts make you uncomfortable, turn back now. I'll change the overall fic rating to mature as well. All other horny bastards, come and get it!

“Are we almost there?” Paul whined. 

 

“If I say yes, will you stop asking?” John laughed. 

 

Paul smirked. “Probably not,” he mumbled. 

 

John paused. He was holding Paul’s hand and his grip grew softer. They were both breathing fast, reeling a little as they came to a halt on the path. On either side was a sparse coverage of trees and the fading lights of the edge of town. But new lights were glowing ahead of them, shimmering off the surface of the water. John turned to Paul and grinned. “I knew you’d say that,” he teased, “don’t even know why I asked.”

 

“Oh come on, you love it,” Paul cried, advancing on him. With his hands reaching up across his chest to his shoulders, Paul chuckled, “it’s part of my charm. Always asking questions. Isn’t that what attracted you to me?”

 

John looked at him warmly, nodding. “No,” he said puzzlingly, “‘twas your ass, darlin’.”

 

Paul laughed and pushed him. “Shuddup,” he giggled. 

 

John stepped back into place, one foot between Paul’s, close enough to feel his shuddering breath. “Make me,” he whispered. The grin that followed set Paul on fire and he looked at his feet hastily. When he looked up and started to lean forward, John turned and again started dragging him. 

 

“Oh, you tease,” Paul scoffed. 

 

“Nuh-uh, not yet!” he shouted doggedly, “I gotta get ya jus’ how I want ya. Then we’ll see how it goes.”

 

“Oh, you _ slut _ ,” Paul laughed. 

 

John’s head swivelled around with an incredulous expression. He swung his arm and caught Paul across the chest, softly pushing him back. The two laughed as Paul had to swing his feet behind him to keep from falling. As a sign of peace, John looped his arm around Paul’s waist and walked him forward. The trees opened up and revealed a little cabin. A dock stretched out into the glass-like water. Paul took a moment just to stare, to take in the almost picture-perfectness of it. He felt John’s arm pull tighter at his waist and his face grew hot. His reverie broken, he glanced sideways at John, who smiled softly at him. 

 

“You ready for the tour?” he asked. 

 

Paul’s eye was drawn to the water. He let out a sigh and shrugged out of John’s hold. “I’m hot,” he groaned. 

 

“Well, someone is feeling confident at least,” John teased. 

 

“Git,” Paul replied, shaking his head and smiling. “I need to cool off.” He nodded once towards the water. “You in?” 

 

John put his hands high on his hips (a little thing about him Paul was starting to notice, pleased by the soft and almost feminine quality it had). His mouth twisted as he thought. He looked over at Paul, who’d already shrugged off his jacket. Paul couldn’t help but feel excessively proud as John’s eyes scanned him up and down and this longing shine took over them. When their eyes met, they shared twin smiles. “Okay,” John whispered and threw his jacket off. “I haven’t got a towel or anything to offer ya, so if you suddenly get pneumonia, no  _ bitchin _ ’, hear me?”

 

“I got it, Mom,” Paul grunted as he struggled to pull off his shirt. He blinked as he was blinded by moonlight and laughed. Ivan’s party had delivered handsomely in booze, with stops at several favorite bars and at least five hundred million bottles of cheap wine waiting at his house. At this point, Paul was sobering up, but in no great hurry. Everyone had been accommodating to “John’s new friend,” dutifully refilling his cup when it looked light. They’d done the same for John, of course. Paul had let out an ugly, snorting laugh several times as he watched John stumble happily through a whiskey haze. The man had attempted to  _ dance _ ! Paul remembered too hotly the many soft looks in his and John’s direction as they weaved together, as they talked and joked with the little house of outcasts. It was nice to have a silent fan club for the two of them, but did they really have to gawk at them like that? 

 

He looked out at John in the low light. It seemed like his eyes were closed, his drunken squint even worse than the average one. Paul laughed as he watched John attempt to hop and shake out of his painted-on jeans. It was John who’d suggested getting away. John might have been used to the personal questions, seeing as he’d already been to a number of these closeted parties - but Paul, in all his giddiness, was still in uncharted waters. Many of their friends, comfortable and sauced, were all too eager to ask the big questions: “what are you going to do with your life?”, “what do you believe?”, “what’s it all about?” Paul was certain he wouldn’t survive art school. Dipping his toe into the doubly queer social circle had been more of a shock then he bargained for  _ without  _ the Nietchze and what-not. John had seen the glazed-eye, tight brow stare as some of his classmates went on about dada. His voice cut sweetly through the noise when he said, “wanna get out of here?” 

 

Paul fidgeted in his underwear. John, ever the exhibitionist, was also down to his skivvies and comfortably strutting around. Paul could only stand with his knees bent inward and sweat bullets. John shot him a little look and chuckled, swaying. 

 

“Ya look like you’re gonna piss yaself,” he teased. 

 

“You look like you could be blindfolded with dental floss,” Paul replied. 

 

John tried to look shocked, but it was more of an eyes closed, eyebrows high expression that sent both of them into stumbling laughter. “‘Scuse you!” he cried, “you mock the blind? Shame on you!”

 

“You’re not blind, you’re drunk!” Paul giggled, wheeling around to throw an arm around John’s shoulders, “not  _ too  _ drunk, I hope.” 

 

In an instant, John seemed to catch his breath and look directly into Paul’s grinning gaze. Again ( _ dammit _ ), he felt himself looking resolutely at the ground in front of him. He felt the warmth of John’s smile light him up. “Nah, I’m quite clean,” John whispered, “I wouldn’t want to miss this.”

 

They sighed in unison. John turned to look out at the water. It had been a while since the last rain, so the river ran slow and clear. In the low moonlight, Paul could see a little pool along their side, circled with large rocks and the “beach” they stood on. The cabin lay behind them, a few dozen meters away, lit up like a Christmas tree. A happy little dingy sat beached in the millions of round stones lining the river’s edge.

 

“Old Man Gogh wanted you to protect that thing?” Paul mused. 

 

“Well,” John said as he sidled up to Paul, “not in so many words. He didn’t quite  _ ask  _ for my services so much as  _ imply _ that he needed them by mentioning that this place existed and that he’d be in Paris in the same class.” John caught his breath after the torrent of words. “I thought I’d be selfless and show up on his behalf without asking.”

 

“Delinquent.”

 

“Teachers pet.”

 

Paul scoffed and stepped closer to the water. “Real mature,” he grumbled. Looking quickly at his partner, he kicked at the water around his ankles toward John. In return, John gasped and lunged at Paul. 

 

They stayed upright, wrestling against each other’s hands and laughing for a minute. The water felt cold splashing around Paul’s waist, but he couldn’t say that he cared too much. He slammed his palms against John’s flat stomach and pushed him against the current. John fell back into the water and clasped Paul’s shoulders as he went down. The two of them tumbled breathlessly in. Paul pressed his face to John’s chest as his head went under. The fight didn’t resume when they surfaced. John held fast to Paul and rocked as the water dripped over his eyes. For a while, they were consumed with this natural, simple dance and the sound of their own laughter. 

 

They stood with the water lapping around their shoulders and their hands at each other’s waists. John was looking at Paul intensely. His eyes looked heavy, without sleeplessness or drunkenness. He had the look that Paul had only read about in his cousin’s girly teen magazines. He did not look away from Paul, and as nervous as he felt, Paul couldn’t look away either. 

 

All that he wanted to say was quickly lost in John’s mouth. Ever the eager one, John stepped weightlessly into Paul’s footsteps and kissed him ravenously. Paul felt swaddled and safe. He couldn’t help but smile as his arms circled John’s shoulders and his eyes fell closed. Like in a choreographed dance, he pressed his body to John’s, and when he felt hands floating over his ass and down his legs, it felt natural to wrap himself around John’s waist. John lifted him and grabbed him delightfully tight by the back of his thighs. John hiked him up onto his hips and Paul groaned happily as his dick rubbed against John’s stomach. 

 

Nothing but the sound of crickets cut through the quiet. John looped his arm under Paul’s legs and playfully ran his other hand up the leg of Paul’s boxers. He shivered as John’s thumb filled the crest between thigh and crotch. He gasped as he pulled back. John opened his eyes and smiled. 

 

“Alright, there?” he whispered.

 

“Yuh,” Paul slurred, “I’m alright.” He eyed the cabin like a lighthouse in the fog. “Think they’ve got a place to lie down and get dry in there?”

 

“Oh yeah, I’ve got something that might be perfect.” Slowly, John started walking towards the shore. Paul looked at him admiringly as he kept his arms firmly locked around John. John returned the gaze, but began to pant and grunt the farther out of water they got. He was really struggling as they made their way to the side of the house. 

 

“Christ, you’re getting fat,” John grumbled. 

 

“Right, because you’re a picture a’ health, liftin’ all those bags back at the dock?” Paul chided. 

 

“Aye, I was born to be a sailor, fit for the shit too.” 

 

“Hey, seaman, can ya heave me across ya shoulder?”

 

Paul, incredulous and proud, laughed as John stared at the ground. It was dark, but he could feel the heat of John blushing against his shoulder. 

 

“. . . shuddup,” John whispered.

 

“Make me,” Paul quipped. 

 

John’s eyes pierced Paul’s and made him shiver. He kicked the door to the screened-in porch around back and it swung out of their way. The porch was handsomely decorated with comfortable chairs and potted plants. A little stained glass ornament hung from one of the windows. The moonlight threw shards of muted colored light on the floor and across the upholstery of a blue daybed. It was barely bigger than a twin bed, with plump pillows lying against the backboard and long quilts folded at one end. 

 

“Wow,” Paul sighed, “convenient. Did you do this?”

 

“I wish,” John said, “I think Gerald is just a perv or something.”

 

“You call your professor  _ Gerald _ ?” Paul cried. 

 

John laughed as he bent over and let Paul fall onto the bed. “That’s the part that concerned you?” He groaned as he sat beside Paul and took a deep breath. “I called him a perv!”

 

“Well. maybe his wife is just a bitch and he has to sleep out here sometimes,” Paul laughed, stretching out on the day bed. “It is quite comfortable,” he added. 

 

“ _ If  _ he’s got a wife,” John pondered. He sighed as he laid beside Paul, head propped on his arm. Paul felt warm within his gaze. “I assumed he was just a lonely little man who’d rather play with his dingy than score a girl.”

 

Paul giggled. He wanted to fit in another witty remark, but he was beginning to sink into the plush bed and lost his train of thought. The long day weighed down on him. He couldn’t believe that over the course of one day he could feel enraged, crushed, and restored within a few hours. In a way, he was embarrassed by his earlier hissy fit. John was lying beside him, running his fingers through Paul’s hair, and he was loathe to say his blushing was due more to him reminiscing on that moment than enjoying this one. He’d surprised himself, not only with his anger but with the deep, shitty feeling that festered when he thought he was an afterthought. It was like when he was twelve, asking Mary Ellen or whatever her name was to a school dance, only to see her there with a schoolyard friend after he’d been soundly refused. It was like that but stronger. Stronger because he and John actually  _ had  _ something strong going on. Eye contact, songs, rehearsals. . . something in all of that was much more between those two than between him and anyone else. Paul had half a mind to be worried about how invested he was in this relationship, but John had started kissing his neck and all other thoughts fell away. He grinned and gripped the back of John’s head. 

 

John’s hands slid under Paul and caressed his back. He cupped Paul’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss him. Paul chuckled into John’s mouth; John seemed so excited, he was getting sloppy. 

 

“Easy, Lassie,” Paul giggled. 

 

“They don’t call me a damn dog for nothin’,” John said, then barked madly with eyes all big and crazy.

 

“Stop it,” Paul said through his laughter, “I’m not fucking you if you’re going to be a madman.” 

 

“That ship has fuckin’  _ sailed _ , honey,” John cried, sliding one of his hands down to Paul’s waist. “But, I don’t wanna waste this opportunity. I can be normal for a change.”

 

Paul shook his head. “Don’t be,” he sighed, “I’d rather have  _ you _ , anyway.” 

 

John looked at Paul for a long, quiet moment. When he leaned in, his grip around Paul’s waist was tight, but not forceful. Paul slid his hands up John’s chest, over his shoulders, and cupped his cheeks. He felt something close to pride as his fingers spread over the goosebumps along the back of John’s neck. They kissed with a choir of crickets singing their praises. Paul’s mind wandered to a host of feelings; his heart beating fast as his nerves caught up with him and the booze finally washed away; his fingertips rubbing roughly over John’s day-old shave; the waistband of his shorts pulling slowly away from him. John was tuned into the first and last thoughts, it seemed, and pulled away gently as his hand slipped down Paul’s stomach. He pressed his forehead to Paul’s and smiled easily. 

 

“How are you doin’?” he asked. 

 

“Mm, good,” Paul mumbled. His arms and neck prickled when he caught John’s eyes. “Great, actually,” he added. His breath came out short and forced. He looked down at the space (more accurately  _ lack  _ of space) between them. He closed his hand around John’s wrist. 

 

“Is it. . . will it hurt?” he whispered. 

 

“Hm?” John said with a concerned look. “No, you should be fine. I mean, has it hurt before, when you. . .?”

 

Paul scoffed. “I haven’t really been there, git. I don’t-I, um- I dunno. . . Like, girls say it hurts the first time, so-”

 

He bristled when John laughed. As if he was a frightened little virgin - which, to his credit, he was in  _ this  _ case. He softened as John looked back, soothingly running his other hand through Paul’s hair. 

 

“Nah, we’re not doing that tonight,” John sang.

“Really? Why - erm, uh, oh right,” Paul stumbled into each word, “yeah, that wouldn’t make sense right. . . now.” He patted the mattress and sighed. “Yep. This isn’t the right. . . support. . . cushion. Not for that, at least.” 

 

John cackled and buried his head into Paul’s shoulder. Paul glared at the ceiling, face on fire. 

 

“What? I’m right!” he yelped. 

 

“Well,” John giggled, wiping a tear from his eye, “not quite, luv.” He placed his chin gently on Paul’s chest and looked up dolefully at him. “It’s not so easy you can just do it. You gotta get some things ready, make everything relaxed. It’s better that way.” 

 

“Okay,” Paul sighed happily, “that does sound nice, actually. Like, so you give out massages and shit like that before hand? With the fancy linen oils?”

 

“Umm,” John hesitated. He bit his lip and looked away, making Paul wish he had a camera on him. After a second, he nodded. “You’re not far off, actually,” he smiled. “Think that, but maybe more. . .  _ personal _ .” 

 

Paul’s eyes flashed a little wider. He felt like he was starting to sweat horribly. “Oh,” was all he could manage. He was very torn between a sinking nervous feeling and a swelling feeling of want. John leaned in for a deep kiss. Paul sighed aloud as John’s tongue ran gently over his lower lip. Feeling John’s hand still flat against his belly, Paul again grew hot and electric. He pushed his hips into John’s hand as encouragement. 

 

“This,” he gasped, “this’ll do fine.” 

 

John smirked and reached further. His fingers slipped under the waistband and Paul groaned happily. Slowly, John slid his palm over the tip of Paul’s dick as he kissed him slowly. It was already dripping with precum and John was carefully spreading it across his hand as he stroked. Paul’s eyes fluttered closed and he drove his pelvis closer to John’s. John palmed around the head until his hand was slick and Paul was moaning softly on every breath. He stroked Paul’s shaft slow, top to bottom, as if trying to commit every inch to memory. Paul was sick with the thought of where John had learned something like that, but the dread was drowned out by his own heavy breathing. His hands grasped desperately at John’s back and he was once again pleased as John’s hips hitched when his fingers slid over John’s spine. Unsure as he was, he reached down with one hand and tugged John’s wet shorts away from him. He playfully bounced his fingers against the elastic and tried to hide how his heartbeat went crazy when his fingers brushed against John’s cock. John chuckled and his hand moved a little slower. 

 

Paul licked his lips and looked down at John. Carefully, he reached and closed his fingers around John’s dick. He rubbed the head, already glistening, with his thumb. John moaned happily into his mouth. He followed John’s lead and began to match John’s rhythm as he stroked. John groaned and smiled as he looked at Paul. 

 

“Damn,” he exclaimed in a breathy voice, “you’re good. Sure you’re new to this?”

 

“Stop,” Paul chuckled. He felt like if he were any redder, he’d be a fucking fire truck. John retaliated by nipping at Paul’s nose and for a moment they stopped to laugh. Paul surprised himself by rising up on his elbow and reaching down to palm John’s balls. John’s startled moan encouraged him, and he dragged his fingers teasingly up John’s shaft as he pumped. Paul’s heart skipped a beat as John squeezed tighter, but revelled in the feeling after a moment. They stroked each other together and were soon breathing and writhing together. Paul felt pins and needles everywhere. His head reeled back on it’s own and his breaths were quick and loud. Pleasure swelled astronomically in his hips and he rocked steadily into John, who rocked right back. His free hand ran along the nape of John’s neck and tugged mercilessly at the crop of curly hair there. John seemed happy with it by the way his other hand grasped hard at the bed covers. His head dipped between Paul’s neck and shoulder and his teeth grazed the skin lazily as he kissed. Paul could barely stand the heat. Something drew taught below his stomach and he groaned loudly. 

 

“Fuck,” he gasped, “don’t  _ stop _ .” 

 

John pressed his face into the pillow and moaned. He let go, much to Paul’s dismay, but started stroking again in long, careful motions. As he did, he slid his knee in between Paul’s legs and hiked his hips up to his mid-thigh. The pressure and the slow strokes made Paul’s toes curl. He held tight to the back of John’s thigh with one hand and looped the other around John’s shoulder. A shudder ran through him and then he was gone, legs and arms grasping around John’s glistening body as he came. He groaned and fell back on the pillow, huffing like an outrun dog. 

 

John, gasping, slumped over Paul’s side, breathing heavily. He slid his hand out of Paul’s boxers and looped it around his waist. He seemed almost cautious as he lay Paul back down. They lay for a while panting and Paul rubbed John’s back. He chuckled as he exhaled. 

 

“God,” he mumbled, “thank you.” 

 

“Thanks,” John sighed, “but I prefer to go by Jehovah. I’m feeling Old Testy-ment, these days.” 

 

Paul laughed and shook his head. He playfully grabbed John’s ass and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Whatever, your holiness” he giggled, “but really. . . I loved it.” 

 

John raised his head and smiled sheepishly. “I hoped you would,” he whispered, kissing Paul as he came back down. Paul became once again aware of something hard and hot against his thigh. 

 

“Ah, sorry luv,” he cried, “I got distracted.” 

 

“Don’t be, that was my intention,” John grinned. He shifted forward and a wanting groan leaked out from his parted lips. “I, uh, wouldn’t mind if we went at it again. I mean, if you feel up for it.”

 

Paul didn’t hesitate. His fingers were already grasping at John’s hips, pulling him close, hands drawing closer to his midriff. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I wanna get the hang of this anyway.” His hand closed around John’s cock again and John, grateful, ran his fingers through Paul’s hair and held on for dear life. 

 

. . . 

 

Paul was ruminating as they lay still as stones. John was fast asleep with his face pressed into Paul’s chest. His arms tangled behind Paul’s head and hung limp over the daybed. Paul’s first thought was how fucking heavy John was. He was sure they weighed nearly the same but asleep, John was like a stack of wet quilts. Paul also regretted not bringing a towel and was sure he’d wake up in some beautiful cocktail of river water, sweat, and spunk that would be a hell of a thing to explain to Mike when he snuck back in through the bathroom window later that morning. He could use a cigarette, but didn't really feel energetic enough to bother. That, and he would hate to wake John. Paul could only think of how long the day had really been for him. Up in the morning to catch the bus, rehearsal as tense as it was, getting chewed out by yours truly, then galavanting at a party for a few hours before ending up there. He was knackered by nine, and it was nearly three in the morning now. He wondered if the party was still going on and who was still there. He wondered what they’d do to the poor professor’s sheets - dunk them in the river or simply toss them in the bin? 

 

He was beginning to nod off as he wondered. The combination of his silly little musings and the soft sound of John’s breathing was like the ocean in the way it soothed him. He felt free to enjoy the moment and be unapologetic, unguided in what he was thinking. 

 

_God bless stupid questions,_ he thought. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear lord, it's been a hot second since I've written a fan fiction. It was the song in my heart for a moment. I'm being encouraged by a friend to write little drabbles like this as part of a series, so if you think that's a cool idea and want to see more of it, let me know! I'll start updating.


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